1944
by Crystalrose7788
Summary: What happened to Colonel Hans Landa after Operation Kino, as written in his journal.
1. June 13, 1944

Disclaimer: I in no way own the rights to Inglourious Basterds or any of its characters. Being as I wasn't sure of the dates of "Operation Kino," however, I made up my own. These comments and views are not my own. I thought the actor did an excellent job portraying his character and I wanted to fill in his future. I intend no offense to any ethnic/religious/cultural groups, and the story will reflect that.

* * *

June 13,1944

I suppose one could argue that what happened to me was fair. One might even argue that it wasn't enough. Wasn't I the one responsible for the death of countless innocents, certainly numbering into the tens of thousands? Yet here I am, walking away from the war with my life intact, though I cannot say the same for my face. I had personally viewed the bodies of viciously beaten and scalped Nazis, courtesy of the very group I had somehow depended on to vindicate me. These slaughtered men were merely foot soldiers, men simply carrying out wartime duties. Bakers, tailors, shopkeepers, blacksmiths. I, on the other hand, was for all intents and purposes, a mercenary, one who had spent years earning my infamous nickname. I was personally responsible for the deaths of innocent men, women and children who had never wronged me in any way. And yet, I'm alive, by my own volition.

Obviously the end was nigh: millions upon millions of Russians were practically at our doorstep, with British and American troops landing all along the shores of our occupied lands. As soon as our forces took out the Russians, in particular, more would appear in their place—the new ones even more vengeful than the last. I had escaped this inevitable aftermath with a flesh wound, as denigrating as it was—the very symbol I had come to represent, and later—of course, in hindsight—to regret.

The Führer always rubbed me the wrong way, even though the masses tended to worship his every word. Maybe it was his perpetual sweatiness that seemed to indicate he knew what he said was absurd, and his knowledge that he could be called out at any time. Perhaps it was that stupid little Chaplin moustache, on second thought. I never was one for the comedies, and certainly not one to watching that simpering American fool. Only after Hitler had assumed power, I read his belligerent book, _My Struggle_, and felt oddly enough at that time that his prison sentence wasn't enough. Frankly, the man was insane. Yes, Germany was going through difficult times, what with the humiliating treaty we had to sign at the end of World War I, but really, to blame it on a harmless, albeit small, subset of civilians? They weren't even the ones who forced us to sign that treaty.

Though I could see the overall flaw in the Führer's plans, I am not claiming to be a tenderhearted person. Bridget von Hammersmark, as lovely as she was, simply had to die. Did she honestly believe she could slip those_ I_-talians past me without suspicion? Maybe she could have fooled the majority of the crowd, but to believe that she alone would be the sole German receiving credit for Operation Kino, well—I couldn't have that. Her death was her own fault. She should have known better than to challenge me. I saw right through her scheme. And mountain climbing, of all activities? How preposterous! To imagine her mountain climbing still sends me into fits of laughter. I'm sorry; I've just been rendered incapable of finishing what I was going to say. I still cannot stop laughing about her "mountain climbing" adventures.

* * *

A/N: The action picks up in chapter 3.


	2. June 14, 1944

June 14, 1944

As I hear about the events that played out two nights ago on that fateful night ending the war—an event in which no one in the theater survived—it seems to me that more was happening than even I was aware. Of course, I _had_ been busy eliminating von Hammersmark and capturing the leader of the Basterds, but it seemed as if explosions were not the only occurrences leading to the death of the Führer and the entire upper echelon of Nazi command. There were remnants of nitrate film found behind the screen, the media explained, and the bodies were badly charred. This isn't indicative of one or even three explosions, but more of a slow burn. Additionally, the bodies of the Nazis were littered with bullets. Hitler in particular could only be identified by a couple of unique medals he had on his person as well as his lack of a testicle, a rather unfortunate body part he had lost during World War I. This identification was only possible because as he fell, he lodged himself between the theater seats and thus his lower body was better preserved in the subsequent explosion.

I wanted to pride myself on being the individual that ended the war. This news about fires, film, and bullets is troubling, leading me to believe that other plans were in action regardless of whether I picked up the phone or let it lay on the cradle. So essentially my selling out my own country, which should have made me a hero to the Allies at least, instead led to deaths that would have occurred anyway and a permanent scar that will certainly lead me to the firing squad or gallows.


	3. June 15, 1944

June 15, 1944

So you may be wondering where I am, how I am able to continue writing. After Raine carved his mark—well, I suppose it's actually _my_ mark—into my skin, I was transported to Normandy. There I was brought before a rather large presence of Allied soldiers who had only a week ago stormed onto the beaches and suffered massive casualties as well as inflicting quite a lot. I was pushed before them bedecked in my uniform, which by this time had amassed a rather nasty blackish bloodstain on the collar from my freely bleeding forehead. During the trip there, the two remaining Basterds hadn't even allowed me the use of my hands to wipe away the blood as it flowed into my eyes and mouth, causing the former to burn almost continually. I figured I'd be taken into an awaiting aircraft by Raine's superiors, but it seems that the only men here are foot soldiers of low status, with no rescue vehicles in sight.

As the Allied soldiers moved towards me at Normandy, revenge written across all of their faces, Raine gave me a hard shove towards the sand, soft ground upon which I, dehydrated and hungry, stumbled and fell. I wondered if the hatred I felt emanating from them came from the mere sight of my uniform or in the fact that in knowing what I had done for the Allies, they resented me. In ending the war on the thirteenth, I was a week too late to prevent the deaths of many of their comrades. It was as if their deaths a week ago were in vain, for _I_ was the one to leave the phone on the cradle and to allow for the obliteration of Hitler and the entire Nazi chain of command. But then, in the midst of my thoughts, the tables suddenly turned.

"You're the Basterds, ain't ya?" one Allied soldier remarked, referring to Raine and the other surviving Basterd, the man I had cheerfully referred to as the "Little Man," though I was never made aware of his actual name. A big smile was plastered across the soldier's youthful face at this introduction. He couldn't have been more than eighteen years of age.

"Sure are, kid," Raine replied, the tone of his voice making it plain that he was sneering.

"You all ended the war, didn'tcha? Heard about the end of the war via telegram. Have to wait around here until the choppers return."

"Sure did."

"Who's that ya got with you?"

I held my breath. _Shit._ I couldn't do more than stare at the boots of the Allied soldiers in front of me. For the life of me I couldn't raise my eyes.

"First I got a question for you all. Are any of ya'll out there Jews?"

I heard many reply in the affirmative.

"Y'all know what the Nazis were doin' to your brethren, dontcha?" he questioned.

"Wiping out every last one of us!" one presumably Jewish soldier yelled. "I heard they killed millions of us and have the rest locked up all over this godforsaken place!"

Another soldier joined in the conversation.

"Hope Hell's got a room for 'em all!"

Many responses in the affirmative followed. Louder, more raucous. I still hadn't taken a breath.

"Well, you know what—" Raine began. "As successful as that operation was, they missed a big'un. This'n right here. An SS Nazi officer, a colonel by the name o' Hans Landa. Know his well-earned nickname?"

A wave of nausea swept over me. This hadn't been my plan at all. I expected to be met by the Allies at Normandy as a sort of double-agent hero. Certainly not like this. When I finally remembered to breathe I tasted blood.

"This'n is known as the Jew Hunter," Raine stated matter-of-factly. If I had been in any position to do anything whatsoever about my situation, I would have killed him with the last semblance of strength I had left, surrounding Allied soldiers be damned. They would have had to kill me to pull me off of him. Instead, I felt the rage leave me as I watched several mud-encrusted pairs of boots approach me. I let my head fall.

Several rifles cocked. This was it. I wasn't going to be given any time for explanation. Not that I could blame them, of course. Most of the families I'd uncover had no time to even scream before my men eliminated them.

"Now, fellas, there's more to the story with this'n," I heard Raine say from a position above me. "He was aware of what was to happen in that theater an' didn't stop it from happenin' though he could've."

"So?" someone yelled.

"I don't care if he helped to end the war. He should die," a soldier close by added. Raine ignored these two and continued his diatribe.

"How'd he get that swastika on his forehead?"

"Well that, boys, is courtesy of yours truly. See, Mr. Landa wanted to walk into our country a free man. Just take off his Nazi uniform an' disappear under a new name. This reminds him an' everyone else of what he done."

"What are you plannin' on doin' with him?"

Raine leaned heavily on my shoulder. I kept my humbled appearance intact, though it greatly irked me to have him so cocky when it was I who let him live in the first place.

"So I'm sure there'd be some folks who'd be _rarin'_ to know where this turncoat gone an' hid himself," Raine explained. "After all, he made a mighty fine speech to my commandin' officer about the conditions of his surrender, once he played his part in Operation Kino, of course. A mighty fine _recorded_ speech, at that."

I had to think about that. I had spoken to his commanding officer over a two-way radio. There was no way that that was recorded. Of course, I could not confirm that with the now-deceased radio operator lying somewhere in the forest—

"Awww, Lt. Raine, can't we have a few goes at him? It's not fair that he shouldn't get some retribution!"

A long silence followed. I kept my head down until I realized that Raine was probably staring down at me. I looked up at him with as innocent a look as I could muster, focusing my gaze only on him. I was correct. He was smirking down at me. Before I could look elsewhere, he looked back at the soldiers.

"'kay, boys, but you can't kill him or maim him enough as to prevent him from walkin'. He's not a small man an' I don' figure on carryin' him back to the Nazi gallows."

And so the beatings began. For the sake of the reader of this journal, I won't get into the details of what they did to me, but I'm lying here now on my stomach by the fire and it's hard to breathe… or to see, for that matter. Haven't had two black eyes since grade school. I think they broke my nose as well, and the carving on my forehead is throbbing unbearably. Pinky finger's bent at a strange angle and I have quite a few gashes on my knees as well, but I don't really feel those. Surprised I can even manage to write this.


	4. June 16, 1944

June 16, 1944

Raine and some of the Allied soldiers hopped into a military truck and shoved me in the back of it, making me sit back there with several Allied soldiers that glared at me throughout the ride. I didn't say very much, because it's not going to make very much difference. I figured by this point I'd be on a ship headed for America with Allied soldiers that treated me with resentment and respect both. Instead, I'm bloodied and sore in the back of a military vehicle with people who hate me. I began to feel more and more that this proof of my treachery, this "recorded" audio, did not actually exist.

Additionally, I heard more about the happenings in the theater between the military men, many who didn't realize my excellent command of the English language. Evidently, all parties involved are claiming that Emmanuelle – the owner of the theater – was at least partly responsible for the massive fire, being as there would be no reason to leave nitrate film lying about on stage in large quantities otherwise; the material was known to be highly flammable. The Basterds received their fair due for their role in the fall of the Reich. The Bear Jew and his _I_-talian companion were to receive posthumous Medals of Honor.

When we stopped for the evening, I had my chance to speak with Raine. The "Little Man" sat on his side in the small camp of about half a dozen Allies, who were all presumably sleeping at this late hour. The campfire cast shadows across the two men's faces as Raine cleared his throat and flashed me a toothy grin.

"Looking forward to dyin' at the hands of your countrymen?" Raine asked me, grinning ear to ear, cutting into the silence of the campfire's cracklings. I felt an extreme ire at the fact that he had managed to escape death, referring, of course, to the ugly scar on his neck.

I rolled my eyes. He continued to speak, ignoring my response.

"Did you really think you'd be able to redeem yourself by jus' sittin' there an' allowin' Operation Kino to happen? Just cause you didn't inform 'em of our plans don't make you the hero. _We_ were the ones that carried out—"

"Ha," I replied with full confidence, though I remembered the more recent media indicating more than one attempt on the Reich leaders. "Not only did I allow for it to take place, I myself put one of your badly placed dynamite sticks in the Führer's opera box. So in reality, I _did_ do more than you, and your commanding officer was made well aware of that. I'm certain he'll do more than _chew you out_ for disregarding our agreement."

"It don't matter if you stopped the man himself," he retorted with a sneer. "In doin' all his dirty work for years, you can't just expect to tell my commandin' officer that you're gonna surrender with your conditions – your little U.S. medal of honor and land in Massachusetts – an' not be expected to pay for your crimes in some way."

"You disfigured my face. Is that not payment enough? It was for the other Nazis you sent back to their commanding officers."

"You are not a faceless German soldier though, are you?" Raine spat. "You're Colonel Hans Landa, the Jew Killer."

"Jew Hunter," I corrected. "Can you not keep such simple facts straight? The Germans are going to be laughing at your supposed accusations. Don't you see that they are more likely to trust a man who has been working for them for years… certainly not a man who is the enemy!"

"Well, recordings don't lie," he shot back.

"You know what I was thinking?" I surmised. "In mulling over your reasoning for returning me to Germany, I have come to the conclusion that this supposed "recorded" conversation doesn't even exist," I added with an air of extreme politeness. Being as he had graciously re-applied my wrist shackles in the front after the beating, I was able to gently place a finger on the corner of my mouth as if patiently waiting for an explanation. "I spoke over two-way radio in an unexpected and brief communication with your commanding officer, and as I do recall your arms were out of commission during the entire time we were housed in the building with the radio. Cuffed behind your back, I do believe, and thus unavailable for use," I added with a gentle smile.

"Do you not think us Americans can have recording equipment on the other end?" he spat. "Just 'cause you know Italian better'n me don't make you the authority on who does an' who don't have recording devices." He said the word 'devices' in his ridiculous American way, overstressing the first syllable with a long "ee" sound. I cringed at his dreadful command of his own native language.

"What do you suppose you're going to do once we arrive back in Germany?" I inquired. "Though the war is over, they are not going to want to see you, let alone speak with you. And me, I'm little more than your prisoner of war—an entity that should no longer exist in peacetime. I can't speak for the German people, but if I were you, I for one would not want to walk into the headquarters of the Reich with a bloodied soldier in tow. Especially with what'll certainly be a mangled explanation of what I allegedly said to you and your commanding officer with no real proof that any such talks actually occurred."

I hid my satisfaction at the fact that he looked utterly taken aback. Not difficult to do so with a dolt such as himself.

"If you're surmisin' that I got no proof, you're in for quite a surprise."

"Then kindly show me," I replied. "Otherwise, what you would hope would be an agonizing trek for me will be no more than an annoyance that will likely work out quite nicely for me in the end—and perhaps, not so nicely for yourself."

"Yeah, right. So you can try to steal it. No thank you. You can kiss my ass before I tell you any more."

I couldn't help but chuckle at his incompetence, at his weak attempts to convince me of the truth of his statements. That idiotic accent of his didn't help much either.


	5. June 18, 1944

June 18, 1944

We finally crossed the border into Germany. I couldn't help but wonder what he was trying to accomplish in traveling to Berlin with nothing but a wounded soldier. Fliers all over Germany screamed the headlines of the moment. I gathered from these fliers that the heads of the Reich killed by Operation Kino had mainly been cremated by this time—being as they had been well on their way to cremation while in the theater—and buried in unmarked graves. Meanwhile, camps were being liberated and prisoners were being returned to their destroyed towns with no word of surviving family members and their locations.

"I made a deal with your commanding officer, Mr. Raine," I heard myself saying as the messages on the fliers became bleaker and bleaker. This was probably my twentieth attempt at mentioning the deal that had been made that fateful night. "Are you not going to honor our agreement? He's expecting me."

"'fraid not," Raine muttered, looking matter-of-fact.

"What are you talking about?" I replied, my stomach feeling hollow.

"I guess now I can tell you. He's no longer with us," he said, his face graver than I ever thought it could be.

"What?"

"Seems to be that right after you spoke to him about the endin' of the war, his whole battalion got a shitload of German incendiary bombs dropped right on their camp. Needless to say, only you, me, and Utivich know about your deal. An' soon, your German comrades will too. Never thought you'd be devastated to hear of Allied casualties, eh?"

With that he gave me a hard slap on the back. I cringed, wanting him to break into a big smile indicating that he had been joking. His expression stayed serious.

"When did you learn this?" I asked cautiously.

"In Normandy. Couple days ago."

I felt a chill go up my spine. It hadn't even occurred to me to worry about my future. I never considered that something could have happened to the man I had spoken to over the radio. The recording didn't exist, of that I was sure. But now Raine had no reason to follow through on any of the conditions of my agreement with his commanding officer. I sat in the back of the truck, lazily reading fliers mounted to poles that we had passed on our way through Germany, holding on to the hope that with no real proof of my treachery, he'd decide against turning me in.

Any hope I had mostly dissipated shortly before arriving in Berlin, at the sight of a vaguely recognizable face of a Nazi soldier on a flier. I may have been able to recognize the face, were it not for the gobs of spit caked all over it.

"Nazi Atrocities Will Not Go Unpunished" the flier read in bold black lettering. It was not just sloppily scribbled writing. It looked to be official government media.

For the first time in my life, I felt a sense of impending doom. Fear. Uncertainty.

When I was finally pulled from the truck and handed a copy of the poster by Raine, I felt weak in the knees. Though the lines of it bled from the spit running off of it, the face was unmistakably mine. He pushed me towards the steps of the new temporary government building.

"You know what, you son of a bitch;" he began, "you may have figured out about our lack of recordings that day, but you got yourself in a heap of trouble without my help."

In the ensuing moment, I smiled. I knew all along that he had been bluffing.

It was then that he pulled out a small reel of film.

"You should've known better than to repeat somethin' like that, 'specially in the presence of your enemies," he remarked, smirking back at me.

As my jaw dropped and face blanched, I knew a smile would never again cross my lips.


	6. June 20, 1944

June 20, 1944

Before I am to be executed, I requested to write my final words, a request that was thankfully honored. I can't help but feel both a physical and a mental sting from the swastika carved into my forehead. It's more of a struggle than I figured it would be to write what I know will be my final written words. I have no loved ones that will read this.

In my days with the Allied soldiers, I heard about the trials that many of the remaining leaders of the Reich will have to undergo. I, on the other hand, was pushed right through into my sentencing. The sentence being death, of course. I am told that I should be executed several times over. Death for committing countless atrocities against countless innocents. Death for betraying Germany. I suppose one could argue that this is a fair sentence. Upon their receiving the tape and myself from Lt. Raine, the new leaders of Germany remind me again and again that I have shamed my country, that I have shamed humankind. That I am nothing more than an inglorious bastard, and that I deserve to die.

I wouldn't necessarily disagree with them.


End file.
